


Five is the Charm

by Snowmane



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:46:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowmane/pseuds/Snowmane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three small chapters of varying length and seriousness centered around everyone's favourite renegade mage and the Champion of Kirkwall. The beginning of his relationship with a certain apostate girl, a royal delivery and a hope for the future from an often forgotten sidecharacter. Some semi-witty banter, some fluff and one of my favourite head-canons happily connected with the number five.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wild Child

**Author's Note:**

> Valentine's Day is nearing and I have this odd need for chocolate and general fluffyness.

“I figured a willing host, a friend… it had to be better than playing the demon and hunting some corpse.” He drops his gaze as he speaks. How did he start this hopeless conversation again? Ah yes, something about being sorry for getting weighty last time – looks like he is on the perfect way to do the same thing over again.  
Anders shifts his weight from one foot to the other, not sure how to continue. How do you speak with a stranger about something like this? Well, not a complete stranger anymore, but she’s still new to him; he nearly jumps out of his skin every time he hears her energetic footfall coming towards the clinic door. He lifts his gaze, giving her another quick once-over just to find her eyes fixed on him as well.  
She does not smile, but her voice is soft, reassuring, as she speaks: “We cannot always predict the outcome of our actions. We can only do them with a true heart.”  
The only thing he can do is to stare at her for a moment. Is this pity in her voice? No, it’s compassion. A rare thing to see in Darktown, he barely recognized it. This woman is dangerous, he thinks, not sure if this is his thought alone or maybe Justice’s as well. Too quickly too close to him, too understanding, too comforting. There is an excited flutter in his heart that is bound to bring trouble and he is almost thankful for the spirit’s iron grip on the treacherous thing.  
He tries humour again. It’s a nice thing to hide behind and he already realized that she is using it quite expertly as well.  
“Kind, wise and beautiful – you must have made a deal with some demons yourself.”  
Wrong, this is so wrong! Justice obviously disapproves and gives him a nice mental slap for even mentioning that. Yeah, make jokes about demonic possession to another apostate in a city crawling with templars. He congratulates himself to his genius idea.  
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t presume… I...” Maker, is she blushing? There is something like a strangled sigh from Justice and he realizes his second mistake. He just called her beautiful. Not that she isn’t, Andraste beware him. Maybe not in a classic way, but Hawke sure is an attractive woman and her eyes alone make him weak. Another mental slap, stronger this time. Her eyes _would have made_ him week, he corrects himself. Back in the days, maybe when he was on the run from Kinloch Hold again. Oh yes, he would have gone for her just for these Lyrium-coloured eyes and the way they lit up whenever she laughed. Performing a little trick or two to get her attention, and then buying her a drink to make sure these eyes would follow nobody else but him for the rest of the night. Would she have laughed and shot a bit of lightning back at him? He never encountered other mages on his little trips; it would have been most… exciting. Inspiring even. Would he have managed to flee the Templars for good, years before the Wardens, if he ever met another apostate on the run? If her father and sister had half the temper Hawke got they would have been a more than formidable opponent. He has seen her do a bit of healing here and there but she is obviously gifted in the more destructive forces. That firestorm last week would have put a senior mage to shame and the one time she used force magic on… he realizes he is staring again. Hawke is blushing even more and suddenly seems extremely interested in a scratch along her staff.  
“I…ah. Sorry. We’ve hardly met and I feel like I know you.” Congratulations, this _so definitely_ didn’t sound any better. But at least she smiles now, a slow, shy thing barely showing on her lips but making her eyes glimmer. Best thing to make her laugh and put it aside as an awkward joke, nothing to think about, easy to forget. Anders, the slightly possessed healer with the odd humour. Sounds like a safe route in his head. Their head. Whatever, Justice has no idea how humour worked whatsoever. Sarcasm is pure horror since the spirit shares his mind.  
“Do I make you feel uncomfortable?” Please, please say yes. He has a nice excuse prepared for it, then she could give him a pat on the shoulder and be done with it and he could just tell himself that they are business partners. Two mages naturally agreeing in some points. Maybe even friends.  
“Keep telling me I’m beautiful, you can’t go wrong with that.” Is this a mischievous glint in those eyes? Hawke suddenly rediscovers her self-confidence, shifting her weight to lean on her staff and jutting out her hip a bit. Must be Isabella’s bad influence on the mage, but it is tempting nonetheless. Before Justice can tie a knot into his tongue he smirks back:  
“Oh, I’m sure I can get more creative.” Passionate, for example. About mages, about her family, about just everything that is somehow connected to herself or her growing circle of friends. Compassionate as well, if he thinks about how many times they run all around the city to help complete strangers. She even works in the clinic now and then, making potions and small deliveries. Adventurous. Like only one person before in his life, Hawke seems to have a sixth sense for finding trouble and getting into all sorts of odd jobs. Fierce next. He has seen her fighting, not only for herself but for others as well. Even wounded she managed to make the others smile and joke, it never seemed to catch her that one day they might loose their battles. ‘Sunshine’ she nicknamed her sister the few times she talked about her, never realizing that she was as much of a light for him as her lost sibling must have been. And free, that one thing that draws him to her like the moth to the flame. Freedom. Grown up outside the circle, an apostate who never learned how to bow her head to the Chantry’s authority. Free with her magic, even walking straight into the Gallows with a staff strapped to her back. It is a dangerous game she plays, but so far she managed to stay ahead. It is an inspiration for him, but sometimes he just wants to hold her close, protect her from all the evil she only does not fear because she never experienced it herself. Just to preserve his Hawke, his wild little mage…  
 _Yours?_ Justice snaps him out of his thoughts, making him realize painfully clear how close he is standing to her and how far he stepped over his own limitations. Anders draws back in an instant.  
His apologies sound weak even in his own ears and it makes him sad to see the lights go dim in her eyes. But this is Hawke he is talking to and she finds her smile again as quickly as always. Even manages to console him, as if it had been her who just flirted with him just to kick him out in the next moment. She pats his shoulder and grabs her bags from the nearby table.  
“See you tomorrow then. Don’t you worry, I won’t press you again.”  
He wants to say something but only nods, Justice now holding him in his reigns. And it is better like this, for sure.  
At the door Hawke turns around one more time, the mischievous grin back on her face. “At least not today. Good night and sweet dreams, Anders”, she purrs, another thing she must have picked up from the Rivaini. He should talk to her brother to keep her away from that woman, only the poor lad wouldn’t be much of a help anyways. A rustle of robes and she is gone while Anders sinks back on his workplace. This is going to be way harder than he thought.


	2. A Royal Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.”  
> ― Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon 
> 
> Small drabble inspired by the quote above. Anders left more behind in Amaranthine than his cat and sometimes it's the little things that hold the deepest memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Following is a major, major headcanon of mine and I wasn't sure for a long time if it's okay to upload it. I never could believe the Wardens just left Anders alone, especially after Alistair actually meets him during the game (at least if you have him in the party at the right moment). You also encounter Nathaniel and Anders himself mentions the Warden Commander at least once - so why is it we never hear of anything else? My Warden was a Dalish hunter and the do not let go of their prey so easily. And even less of their comrades. Plus, I just love Alistair and his humor to bits.  
> So be warned! Hope you enjoy it anyways and happy Valentine's Day! Enjoy the chocolate as long as it is still on sale.

“Nice interior you have here, though I’d like to suggest some flowers. They brighten up the whole room, you know?”  
Ander’s quill stopped a finger’s breadth above the parchment. It was the other man’s luck that he recognized the voice and managed to calm Justice down before the spirit lashed out at the intruder. Carefully he put the utensils away before turning around to face him.  
“Is there anything you want from me, _your majesty_?” He stressed the last words as much as he could. “If it is anything related to the Grey Wardens my answer is no. I thought I made myself clear.”  
“Now, now, Anders. Honestly, from what I heard about you I thought you were less… prickly. Anyways, I was kindly asked by the commander herself-“  
“No! And now get out of my clinic before I make you move!“, Anders couldn’t remember how he got the staff into his hands, but he was now aiming it at the Fereldan sitting on one of his cots, its tip glowing in blue fire. Justice picked up his agitation and turned his surging fear into more aggressive emotions. The blue light spread across his skin as the spirit tapped into their shared magic. The king once had been a templar, he said so himself, who could know what he was up to? The greater was his shock when the other man didn’t move to face him but simply started laughing.  
“Been some time since someone dared to speak with me like this. Not even your templar sweetheart at the Viscount’s place dared to go that far. But calm down now, I’m not here to put you in a sack, beat you unconscious and drag you all the way back to Vigil’s Keep. I would have to constantly drain your mana and this gives me terrible headaches. So put that staff away and sit down.”  
The healer was simply bewildered while Justice saw a clear threat in the Wardens words. Their fight for control ended up with Anders slumping back into his chair which earned him an even wider smile from the king.  
“I’ll try again now and please do not start flinging fireballs. The commander asked me to deliver something for you when I last met her. Said she heard where I was going and there had been rumours and if I happen to meet a certain blonde healer and ex-Warden I should give him this.”  
He reached into a small pouch at his belt, pulling out a battered envelope and held it out towards him.  
“You should be proud. I’m quite a _royal messenger_ to deliver something through half of Thedas.”  
Anders hesitated, his fingers still itching with magic and Justice’s mistrust.  
“What’s in it?”  
“I have no idea. Well, I have an assumption about one of the things in here, but nothing more. She said it were things you forgot at the Keep. She also mentioned something with dirty socks, a cat ruining the curtains and you better having a good excuse because otherwise she is going to _‘go all Dalish on the both of you’_ the next time you’ll meet. I guess you know what that means. That was all.” He threw the envelope into the mage’s lap and came to his feet.  
“Anyways, I’ll have to go. Teagan will be climbing the walls already and I don’t want him to start a search-and-rescue mission. Hang on there, Anders, we might still need you.”

The mage’s angry remark was drowned by the loud sound of the closing doors. Only when he couldn’t hear any steps or noises other than Darktown’s usual hubbub he dared to pick up the envelope, holding it at arm’s length before putting it down on his desk. A quick wink of magic told him that there were no curses or other surprises waiting but some of the items inside surely were of magical nature. Biting his lips he took a sharp knife and carefully opened one side before shaking the contents on the old wooden table. What he saw made him flinch at first, then swallow heavily and finally – after several minutes of just staring at the mismatch of five items – breaking into a sad smile.  
The necklace with its blood-red glass pendant had been given to him after his joining, the traditional reminder of a Grey Warden’s oath. There was a second one, once belonging to Kristoff as Justice reluctantly explained to him. There was a small ring that he remembered, too. A gift from the commander, Lyrium etched into its surface. _To make me feel more at home_ , the spirit whispered in his thoughts and Anders was surprised by the melancholy he felt radiating through their shared mind. There was another piece of jewellery, the earring he lost during the fight with Rolan and his henchman. If they managed to find the tiny item, they must have found the bodies as well. Shame made his cheeks burn and he reached for the last item to distract himself from the horrid memories. It was a small thing, packed separately in thick woollen cloth to prevent it from breaking. His senses tingled uncomfortably as he touched it. _Templar magic_. Carefully Anders unwrapped it, unrolling the small note hidden between two layers of cloth:  
 _“Finally found what we were looking for back in the days. Might have broken a few others while searching for this particular one. Hope you don’t mind. Wishing you all the best. Keep save.”_  
He held up his phylactery, the red liquid inside catching the candlelight and wondered if he should laugh or cry.


	3. What's left behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the final battle the Champion and her companions fled the city, leaving it to other authorities to restore order. As the dust settles some try to save what is left behind.

Her bare feet make no noise on the rich velvet carpets. There is dust and rubble piling up in the middle of the stairs, splinters of glass from the broken windows threatening to cut into her bare soles. Moonlight filters through the holes in the walls and reflects in them, little fallen stars all over the floor she had polished so many times. What a waste, she thinks as she passes the broken doors of the main bedchamber and stops for a second to orientate herself in the dark. Making a light would be too dangerous, the raging mobs of Kirkwall would most likely think that the mansion's mistress has returned and storm the building again.  
The girl sighs as she makes her way through the room, looking for anything that still can be saved. Marian never had taken interest in collecting petty trumpery or expensive jewellery, but her collection of books, potions and magical artefacts has been completely plundered after she fled the city. Orana lets out a little cry as she sees the old wooden chest broken in a corner and its contents sprawled over the dirty floor. It is a useless thing to do and it’s risky, too, but she bows down and collects the mismatch of items. A homespun linen shirt and pair of pants way too big to belong to a woman, a simple wooden comb, pressed daisies glued to a piece of paper, a worn-down leather collar. Keepsakes of the Champions life back in Lothering, she knows.

Sometimes, when the fire burnt low and Orana was the only one keeping her company, the woman would talk about her childhood on the road and the quiet life on their families’ little farm. She had always found these stories hard to believe. Why would a capable mage want to spend her life ploughing fields and baking bread? Only after Master Anders didn’t come home for more than a week and Orana found her crying she had told her another story that made the former slave understand a little: the tale of two young mage girls hiding behind a cart and watching how a couple from the village was getting married in front of the Chantry. She and her sister had hurried home afterwards, Marian had told her, day-dreaming of marrying a strapping young man one day while wearing a beautiful dress and blushing as the other villagers cheered and wished them all the best.  
Her mistress had laughed at this part, a horrible dry laugh that sounded like she was choking on it. “Mages don’t marry, Orana” she had explained to the confused elf. “They also don’t have children as long as they don’t want to have nightmares of them being killed, turned Tranquil or locked away into a Circle. This was the ugly truth we learned a few years later.”  
She had stood up and walked away then, her father’s staff on her back and a bottle in her hand and never spoke of it again.  
But Orana remembered, just like she always did. She isn’t loud, she is not daring. Maker, people often wouldn’t even realize she is in the same room. But she hears and she sees and she _knows_. She also knows where to find Marian's notebook, safely hidden in a secret drawer behind her bedside table. The elf isn’t sure what to do with it, but keeping it away from the hands of the templars and plunderers seems like a good start. Hesitantly she skims through the pages, barely being able to make out the words because of her last reading lesson being so long ago, the lighting so poor and Marian’s handwriting narrow and blotted. When she reaches the last page, she stops, startled, before allowing herself to break into a wide smile. In clear, big black letters her mistress had pre-written an ending for her journal:  
“Thus ends the story of Marian Hawke. May the Maker guide her soul into the light.”  
Another hand, light and elegantly curved and all too familiar to her had crossed it out and added another five words underneath:  
“They lived happily ever-after.”  
She closes the book, pressing it to her heart. Wherever the Champion and Master Anders were right now - maybe there was still hope for them.


End file.
